Another Case
by Indigo Shade
Summary: Oh my. It seems that there is a new case for the new L. Rated T because it is a tad bloody.
1. Chapter 1

A.N: As much as i would love to own Death Note, I do not. I do not own Near. I wouldn't have him as the new L if it were up to me, but it's not, that much is obvious since he IS the new L.

- - -

Getting into the mind frame of a criminal does not take skill or intelligence. Delving into this world of narcissism and hatred is not in the slightest bit complicated. It doesn't require any more training then the understanding that criminals are greedy and greed corrupts. Their mindset is simple; they yearn for the skies, and in a mauled, vindictive version of flight, they think that they can get there, get to the wide open blue where freedom will embrace their idiosyncrasies.

This is not rocket science. It should not be any more shocking then the revelation that the Earth is round, that ice floats. It is a simple observation. And it did not take years to glean this information, only in the simple matter of a few minutes with a true criminal can you see into their minds, can you feel their urge to spread their manufactured wings.

This is the mindset of a criminal.

This is not to be confused with the mind set of a psychopath.

These are the ones that take careful observation, that require a keen mind and a quick wit to understand. They are the exception to the rules. They are the dangerous ones, the bar-your-door ones, the duck-for-cover ones. They think smoothly at times, or they don't think at all, just act in the spur of the moment. They yearn for something they cannot name, cannot taste, cannot feel. Their wings have been ripped off and they have been blinded from seeing the open sky.

This is not rocket science either. In fact, you might have already made this observation yourself. And if this is your first realization of the above facts, it is easy to assume that you are willing to believe them.

And you should be willing to believe this, since these facts have appeared in more then one of L's notes.

This is not the old L's notes, and it is not the second L's notes, but the third L, the current L. The white-haired boy with his knees to his chest, piecing together puzzles as quickly as he pieces together parts of a crime, the one with dark circles under his eyes. His unruffled state is accompanied by frequent unruffled stares, facing people with his black eyes that pitch you into oblivion. He twists a lock of his rumpled hair as he stares, not afraid of observing whatever he can whenever he can.

He is aware of what he must live up to being, he is aware of the blatant stares from his colleagues, those that mock his being, those that laugh at the idea that _he,_ this child, this immature brat, could possibly be L, could possibly be _anything_, other then an anti-social white blob in the middle of the rug.

He does not mind. He is aware that it is because he doesn't mind that they stare at him so, with poorly hidden expressions of disapproval, but that does not change his mental status. He does not mind, because if he did mind, he would not be able to observe so clearly. People, he has learned, shrivel up when you show that you care, they barricade their minds off to you, shut you out and condemn you for being nosy. They cannot, however, complain that you are indifferent. If they complain, then they would expect a change of some sort, but if you are indifferent, you don't care that they want you to change.

This is the way that Near views the world; in blank stares and decaying emotions.

And it is with his decomposing feelings that he solves cases, that he puts together two loose ends and somehow ties up the whole string, how he solved the Kira case, and how he is going to solve every case, for every criminal that comes along.

This is, however, how he views the world only when it comes to criminals. It is in his notes, in his scrawled cursive of abbreviated words, that you learn of his view on psychopaths, that you learn of his cynical approach to these exceptions in nature.

He enjoys just watching, waiting for those without wings to slip on they ground they themselves oiled.

- - -

Perhaps it is from the sheer level of indifference that Xander faced throughout his life that he came about his charming ability to slaughter in cold blood, perhaps from stress, perhaps from a buried trauma.

Regardless of origins, X was, nonetheless, a vicious killer. When gouging out the eyes of helpless children didn't suit his fancy, X maintained a stable job as a clerk in his local supermarket, where he was currently able to withhold title as Employee-of-the-Month.

It was his crime that brought L to be interested once more in the world around him. For this, many have to thank him. Without his horrid, gruesome murders, L might have never resurfaced.

In the year 2010, L officially released to the public information on the mass-murdering weapon, the Death Note. He was met with partial disbelief and partial panicked chaos. The idea he suggested was met with what must have been the same reaction to the invention of the atom bomb: the idea that such power existed was horrifying, terrifying, and completely hard to grasp.

After the chaos was calmed, and after the sceptics were hushed, L did not appear in public any further. He remained invisible, refusing to solve cases and refusing to be found.

This is because, at the time, Near was dealing with problems of his own, ones that had not surfaced before for him, not ever. It was these hints of doubt that lead him away from the peering eyes of other humans.

But this is not the time to explain what was happening in that odd little creature's fluffy white head, no, this is the time to explain what was going on in X's head, the slightly ruffled, mousy brown one. It is time to explain what was happening behind his chaotic brown eyes, however frightening that endeavour may be.

X had acute paranoia. He was one hundred percent positive, and it was from this self-taught paranoia that he learned to kill. He refused to see a psychiatrist, since he was sure that the doctor would attempt to turn him in to the police. He is still positive that ever flickering shadow and every leaf that crossed his path was looking to turn him in to the police.

He was certain of this before he had killed anyone, certain of this before he had let his morals be dragged away from him, certain of this before he had even thought to take a life.

What he had done, it is impossible to know. Near, even in his careful observations, could not decipher what it was exactly that X had accomplished, but that information was no more important then knowing the killer's birthday. X was paranoid, and with that sort of thing it is impossible to assume that something _did _happen. For all the rest of the world knew, X could have always been like that.

Killer X.

This was the phrase that passed through barely parted lips, was breathed quietly when the children were asleep, was said in a distraught tone over the victim's bodies.

Killer X.

It was an easy monster to imagine: a person with no fear of being caught, no particular pattern in killing, a person who was ruthless and who stole the breath of anyone that came too close.

This was nowhere near the truth, but X let the world believe what it wanted to. He was not in it for the fame. He wasn't sure what he was in it for. But he was in it, that was for sure, wedged in a cage of his own construction not too long after the first body was getting cold.

_He signed it. His art, his demonstration of fury and hatred. In blood, too, there was that. He signed his name in someone else's blood. It was ironic in a sad, sadistic way. He was aware of what he was doing even as he took the person's arm, chopping it off at the base. She screamed, of course, letting her horror tear up her throat. She made a desperate grab at her bleeding wound, sobbing and begging mercy for something she had never done. He left her there as he considered what to do. She curled up, tears gushing down her face. It was breaking his concentration. He kicked her idly, and she shut up, silent tears pouring out of her eyes._

_Now came the question of what to sign it as. He couldn't very well sign it as "From Xander, with love" (although the idea _did_ tickle his fancy). It was rare enough for people to have his name, it wasn't like it would take the authorities long to track him down._

_He regretted for a moment that he was doing this in the area he lived in, but small sacrifices had to be made._

_He dragged the still bleeding detached limb across the woman's pink walls. He wondered what color they were. They had been pink before, he was sure of that. At least he was mostly sure. Unless they had been white until the blood stained them? He couldn't be bothered to remember. "Killer X." He wrote, careful to use his non-dominant hand. Then he couldn't be traced by handwriting alone. _

_She was still begging him, pleading with him as if she owed him something. He looked down at her. She was bleeding quite profusely, which was fine with him. Dipping his limb paint brush in her fresh arterial spray, he began coating the walls._

_She wept._

_Her tears mingled with the blood that surrounded her everywhere. It amazed him how much she had bled, actually. He began his project._

_She wept._

_Five hours, six hours? How much time had passed? He couldn't care. Had she bled to death? No, she was just unconscious, hanging onto the pitiful thread of her life, a thread that was becoming increasingly thinner with each passing minute. He watched her pant. At least she had stopped crying, that had been driving him mad._

_She opened her eyes. Blinking as she realized where she was. Unable to escape this nightmare. He watched her, her remaining arm clutching desperately, hopelessly to her wound, as if mere pressure would ease the pain. She should know better, he thought. He paused in his artwork, admiring the color of the paint under the blood. The question of it's hue bit at him._

"_What is the color of your walls?" He said to her, as if we wasn't holding her left arm, and if he was fiddling with the wedding ring that glistened there._

_She panted and tried to sit up, contorting her stomach muscles in a desperate, last-ditch attempt at strength. She failed and fell back to the floor, closing her eyes as pain rushed through her skull. Blood was everywhere around her, and she panted and screamed, crying._

_He watched her._

_She wept._

_After some time, she opened one teary eye. "Coral." She panted. "For the baby."_

_He wondered idly what child she could be speaking of. That, too had been pestering him. Here was the cradle, the toys, the little wardrobe filled with tiny pink socks and pink pyjamas and pink blankets. So where was the child? He would have heard it scream, right?_

_Oh, was that why the woman was misshapen like that? All distended and weird? Is _that_ where the child was hiding? Had the mother swallowed it then?_

_He grinned. Yes, it was obvious she had, in a last attempt to save it. Possibly she would regurgitate the horrible ball of flesh later, in a safer area._

_Well, he thought. I'm certainly not letting her get away with that._

_He watched her even as her eyes widened in horror. It was understandable. She must of thought that he would never consider her eating her baby. She gasped in pain as the blade drove through her abdomen. _

_She wept._

It was this horrifying display that frightened the public, that drove them into their houses early, before the night had truly set in. They refused to speak of it for awhile, talking in hushed whispers away from the children.

"_Did you hear?"_

He loved that, loved the attention that he gleaned. They must love his work, love his display of flawless art. They must, they must.

It wasn't just what he had done to the woman, (what was her name? He thought, breaking his concentration for a bit. He was positive it began with a 'R'. Yes, yes, an 'R'. Or possibly an 'M'. Furrowing his brow momentarily, he returned to pondering his art) it was what he had done to the walls, he thought, that made the scene so much fun to look at. Yes, it was the walls. Or possibly the ceiling. Or possibly the floor. He was an artist after all, choosing his favorite part was like tearing up the rest. He smiled at that thought, and the old lady he was ringing up cat food for smiled back. He almost frowned at her, to tell her that he hated her when he saw her, but instead he returned to this thoughts. Yes, it was the room, not so much the victim that everyone was talking about. (And that victim, what was her name? It was a 'P'-something, he was sure of that. Unless it was a 'Q'.) Killer X had (they always shuttered here) taken a paintbrush and _with her blood,_ (he loved how they said it like that; _with her blood_, like the idea was blasphemy. Well, he thought, it wasn't like he was very well going to use goat's blood when there is a body full of blood at his feet, now, was it?) covered all but one wall, completely, with blood. The detectives were dumbfounded by this. The killer would have had to work fast enough to cover the walls before the blood dried, or else another wound would have had to been severed. They shook their heads. Killer X could be an Olympic runner, if he wasn't a murderer. And that one wall? What a shock that was. It was that wall that really had everyone talking. The wall with the door in it. Oh, interesting, interesting. Because it was across this wall, across the door, that the words "Killer X" had been splattered in blood.

He laughed a bit as he bagged the woman's cat food. More people knew his name then they knew the victim's name. (And just what was it? He was positive that it was a 'G' at this point. G-a-something, he thought.) The old woman shot him a concerned look, but he just smiled as if he hadn't just laughed for no apparent reason.

And then there was the ceiling. It was a charcoal drawing of the victim, without her distended stomach, her body supported by wings, her dress colored in a magnificent dark red (charcoal and more blood, he knew, even though this wasn't released to the public. Actually nothing about the ceiling had been mentioned to the public.) And the thing that bothered the detectives was that the charcoal was untraceable. The substance might as well been picked up from a random fire at a random campsite as bought from the store.

X took this time to look down the line and smile at everyone. The old lady shot him one last concerned look and hoofed it, clutching her white plastic bag as she went. He returned to his thoughts.

Then there was the rest of the room. It looked as untouched as when he had first arrived, not a single drop of blood staining the light pink carpet. Even the victim had been cleaned up. It looked for all the world like he had painted over the walls with red paint (and, originally, the detectives assumed it was paint, until the husband got home, horrified). He had laid the woman out (What was her name?) in the mirror of the picture on the ceiling, except her arm was missing and her stomach was extended from eating her child. It was his way of pointing out that humans were not perfect, but they could be in drawings. (The police did not seem to understand this concept. And whose fault was that? Certainly not X's.) The cleaning supplies where never found, not a single fiber of clothing or a spare hair. The impossibility of it shocked the world.

She was his fist victim.

Now, if only he could remember her name.

- - -

A.N: Now you tell me 'go on' or 'drop it while my eyes are still in one piece'. (Please?!) Also, i know that Near's not like a jump-on-him favorite, and to be honest, he's not my favorite either, but i can't change that he ended up where he ended up. So it comes out like this.

Also everyone give Absh a hug. She is awesome.

Also if anyone has any ideas on where i should go with this, that would be SUPER. Since i like all of a sudden had to write this, but then i had NO idea what the heck i was supposed to do afterwards...


	2. Chapter 2

A.N: I dream of owning death note almost as much as i dream of genie. And yet neither have come true.

- - -

An idle finger around a curled lock of white hair, the new L looked mournfully down at his toys, his soulless eyes penetrating their colored plastic.

He views the world from behind a black stained glass window, watching the fragments of light shift their way into his world. He never goes outside the realm of his window, never opens the window and never expects it to be opened. He is where he belongs.

He views the world in pictures and actions. He is a 'visual' person, he is a clear thinker and a logical one at that.

And he views the world as L, learning from past mistakes and avoiding future ones.

And, at this time, he is avoiding the world as well, caught up in his snowy world, too cold to continue.

He darts his eyes to his chattering colleagues, aware of their disdain. The men that had recently arrived peered at him, their attire as white as his own.

One dared to enter the room, crouching just outside of the card metropolis that Near was in the process of creating. He extended one careful hand out to the silent creature, in the hopes that Near would shake it. He waited, as if he was waiting for a dog to sniff his fingers and become acquainted with him. After half an hour in that uncomfortable position, he clenched and unclenched his aching fist. Near, as always, was unresponsive, simply watching but not approaching. The man rose and addressed the snowy mass at the center of the room.

"_Do you know who I am?"_

The words, if you looked them up in the dictionary, were simple words, words used to calm a frightened creature. Of course Near knew who he was. Near knew everything, because if Near didn't, he would know nothing. This is the job of L; to know everything, to figure out unknown things before someone else does.

Silence greeted the man in the white coat. He made a small mark on his clipboard, just a note. Near did not frighten him, instead the man was reminded of a lost doe in the middle of the highway, wide-eyes and wary.

"_I am here to help you."_

The words slid out in perfect timing, with perfect pauses and perfect diction. They were words that this man has repeated often enough that they follow him in his dreams, stealing his last chance to be freed from his job. These words that were meant to comfort but most of the time were ignored. Because in just the way he said them you could taste the sarcasm polluting the air.

"_You are here to help me with what?"_

Ice. Frozen words that hung in the air, hard and cold and impossible to hear without flinching. They were hateful words, but somehow they possessed the ability to be indifferent, as unflinching as the tundra and just as deadly.

The man retracted a bit, flinching unwillingly. It was just a second, but in Near's constant soulless staring, the move had been noted. The doctor tried to pass it off as a twitch, or another gesture, but he could tell that not much passed this boy.

"_Well, we'll see, won't we? My name is Dr. Frendt. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ne-"_

"_Don't finish my name."_

The words slipped out like the wet scales of a basilisk, cold, hard and deadly. The stare that accompanied it made the doctor pause in horror. Near himself had paused in his building, glaring at the man with enough ferocity to freeze a continent. He blinked, and went back to his state of indifference, as if it had never happened.

"_Well, I see we have some problems here. I mean, look at this city...L."_ He said this a moved his hand across the cards, none too gracefully.

Near looked up, picked up a gun, and aimed it at him, his face contorting in a way that defied him. His black eyes tore into the man, gouging him.

"_I will not hesitate to murder you if so much as one card is touched by you."_

The threat was one that the doctor had to face over the years occasionally, the threat of death. He had even faced a gun several of these times, but not once in any of those trials did he back down. Instead, he had held up his hands and suggested something else. But it was in the way that Near said it, in the quick movement and hating eyes that the doctor got the feeling that this snow demon would really shoot him. He quickly retracted his hand, and made a small note on his clipboard, hoping to regain some composure.

Silence. Silence for hours, the creature blanketed in snow not talking, but observing. Not moving, knees to his chest. A silent battle raged between man and winter.

Man lost.

He stood, shivering as if he had really been covered in snow.

"_We'll...talk later."_

Again only frosty silence. The man left, shivering uncontrollably, hoping never to return. Near watched him leave, indifferent. Granted, the man had almost knocked over his towers, but it wasn't like he cared if people watched him back. He wound a finger in his hair, then placed a replica of Darth Vader on the top of one of his pillars. Idly his finger strayed from his hair to the gun on the floor, stroking it.

It wasn't his, and he was not destined to fire it, he was not the one to pull the trigger, ever. It was loaded, and the safety was off, but never would Near pull the trigger on this gun. He had other guns with him he could fire, yes, but it was this gun that Near had threatened the man with. The man had not seen past his bluff.

This was the way that Near viewed the world, in precious mementos of lives lost, in small signs of permanent mourning that no one else could see. This was the way that Near tried to keep his sanity and indifference, this was the way that Near tried to survive.

This was not his gun. He was never going to fire it, but he kept it loaded by his side, three bullets missing. Always three from the six-bullet chamber. The way that he had gotten it, he had kept it like that.

This was not his gun, but the gun of Mello.

This was not his gun, but he slowly ran his white fingers over it anyway.

- - -

Xander imagined himself as fire. Yes, that was it. Fire, bright, burning, misunderstood. And clever too, although he couldn't quite connect that to the qualities that fire possessed. He stood in the middle of the row, stacking Campbell's tomato soup cans in an artistic way, making sure that all of them faced outwards. He knew he couldn't sign this one, but at least he could do it. And it wasn't hard. Plus he was already getting credentials as an artist.

_This one didn't scream because she couldn't scream. Oh, no, X was too smart for that now. He had cut out her tongue before she could, but when she had tried to emit her helpless whimpering anyway, he had gagged her. Now she was on the floor, watching him with helpless eyes as he paced her room, thinking. A severed limb was too used, instead he had to do something more original, more unknown. All at once, it occurred to him what to do, but this had less to do with the victim then with the room itself._

_He kicked the aforementioned creature casually, and she flinched. She couldn't beg for mercy, but she could kick back, which she did. Her arms had been tied in the beginning (X wasn't _that_ ignorant), but he hadn't imagined that girls would have strength enough to fight back. He rolled his eyes._

_A ringing noise as the blade sliced the air, then a dull thump as it rid the woman of her legs._

_Now, he hadn't wanted to spill blood, had he? But that vapid little girl was just too feisty, and besides, it wasn't like she was going to need her legs were she was going. Perhaps she already knew that she was going to die, and had decided to go out with a bang._

_But this is the way her world ends._

_This is the way her world ends: not with a bang but with a strangled yelp and an arc of blood._

_Her thoughts crashed, her world fell, and she tumbled from her life into the cold reality of death, dashing her maimed body against the frozen marble floor._

_Seven, eight hours, this one. It took time to do the impossible, after all. She had died after he had maimed her, he was aware of that, but he didn't care. This woman bled a lot less then the other one, he barely had enough to finish his artwork._

_But it was done._

- - -

"_Do you know who I am?"_

A silent stare and a frosty hate reached the man. It was a ridiculous question. Of course Near knew who the doctor was, he had pointed a gun at him not too long ago.

"_My name is Dr. Frendt, what do you say to the two of us having a nice long talk? Talk about you, what you think...Whatever you want."_

The offer was blatantly ignored. Near was taking down a tower, a quick movement that somehow did not effect the rest of the city. He removed the debris, then began the tower again, card by card.

"_You have been building this city for quite some time, L."_

Dr. Frendt knew that it was his job to deliver information to the new L, information about a curious case that the police were desperately attempting to solve. For the moment, though, he attempted to make the icy beast comfortable as possible, tried to get him to engage in casual conversations.

"_L? Can you hear me?"_

"_Yes."_

A silence greeted this, but Dr. Frendt realized that this was the first word that Near had said to him that day. Perhaps this glacier was partially melting.

"_I heard that some people were shocked by how you acted. They said you shut yourself in here?"_

Silence. Hours and hours of it, Near building then taking down the same tower over and over and over, moving certain plastic figures from one pillar to the next in a parade of artificial superheros. The psychiatrist watched this with great interest, making the occasional note on his sheet.

"_Listen, L, there is a case, and the world really needs you back, ok? If you could just...help?"_

"_It is not a matter of if I could help, doctor. I am more then capable. The question is wether I _would_ help, isn't it? Which is an entirely different matter in itself."_

The doctor met this with stunned silence. It was the longest that Near had talked to him, and in that moment, Near had shot down his request.

"_...Y-yes, that is true, L. I did not say that you were not capable..."_

"_Then you should have."_ The fluffy white beast swung his dark eyes to the man in the white coat.

"_I-I don't understand..."_

"_Chronic schizophrenia, doctor. Look it up."_

Those words dismissed him and scared him, and he scurried away, thoughts whirling in his scruffy brown head.

Near, as always, watched him go, indifferent. He twisted his head to the side, eyeing the person sitting next to him.

"_Mello, what did you think of him?"_

The blonde bit into a chocolate bar and shrugged.

"Dunno, seemed like a fellow you should ignore, I think."

"_And what about the case?"_

"You are L, aren't you?"

Near nodded and continued to rebuild the pillar.

This was his castle when Mello died.

This must be kept the same as always or the blonde dressed in black would fade away, and Near would be left alone.

All alone in his icy tundra, Near would freeze.

_- - -_

A.N: mello's lines are not supposed to be itallisized, i did not forget i promise. and near actually is showing signs of schizophrenia and sorry if i offended anyone that has the disease i didn't mean to.

Again, Absh rocks for totally being awesome. but you knew that.


	3. Chapter 3

The psychiatrist stared mournfully at the paper before him, seeping in the black scratches of doctor's handwriting, words that tore across the page in a flurry of symptoms and recommended solutions. Dragging his hand through his scruffy brown hair, he let out a woe-begone sigh, blinking the stress out of his brown eyes. He shuffled the papers half-heatedly, scanning the lines over a third time. He paused for a moment then reached into his pocket, withdrawing a folded paper. Smoothing it out, he added it to the pile, trying not to look at the words that shone there, their dark ink standing out in malice, their hateful snarls tearing at the paper they were written on. The words were written with a spiteful, scornful air, hissing at spitting at the intended reader.

"_**These are the details of the Killer X case. Please inform your patient of these facts. It is not necessary to remind you, of course, that unless some progress is shown in your relationship with L, your position will be terminated.**_"

Loves and kisses, from the boss.

Hate and malice more like.

- - -

Xander considered the morning paper with a flair of smugness, unfolding it with a customary shake, twitching his nose with pleasure at the full page attributed to his artwork. He scanned the headline with pride, sniffing in disdain when the article turned out to be more a section on the victim then on the artist. He shook it back into it's rectangular fold, leaving it on the bench where he sat. (Three benches from the front of the park, of course. It was always three benches from the front; because if it wasn't, then it wouldn't be six benches from the back of the park, and six and three add up to nine so it works, X thought, his mental path again derailing. Math was like that though, so he was allowed to not focus. Artists didn't need math.) He cooed to the pigeon that was strutting next to him, and found himself ignored. He cooed louder, only to scare it off.

Beauty was fleeting.

Speaking of which...

- - -

One hand pressed across his wrinkled brow, Dr. Frendt stared idly at the paper. It felt wrong, somehow, to discover that a patient had diagnosed himself. Schizophrenia, schizophrenia, schizophrenia. What was wrong with it, he thought. What was so wrong with someone already knowing what was wrong with themselves, what was wrong with the symptoms matching perfectly, what was wrong with the idea that the great L was mentally deranged?

And _everything_ fit, down to a T. Well, except for the hallucinations, but who's to say that creepy white polar bear _wasn't_ having hallucinations, and just wasn't telling anyone? But everything else was there: the lack of insight, the persecution delusions, the suspiciousness, the social withdrawal, the underactivity, the lack of conversation, the odd ideas and behaviors, even depression. And maybe _that_ was what was so wrong, the fact that the great L, the praised, esteemed, unflappable L, had been felled by a common mental deficiency.

What was so wrong? Probably everything, Dr. Frendt thought with a mental sigh. He knocked on the white creature's door, expecting no response but polite anyway. He had papers to deliver, and his job to save.

Dr. Frendt strode in, pushing the limit on just how confident he could look when in reality he was more then afraid of this tiny terror. He looked up from his clip board and hopped across the room, avoiding cards and plastic figurines.

"_Ne-...L! It's so great to see you again, are you feeling well?_" The words came out too quickly, too frightened, and three octaves higher then the psychiatrist's normal tone. He cleared his throat self-consciously, blushing slightly as he settled in his normal place, all the way across the room from the mini abominable snowman. He tossed his hair away from his eyes, trying to peer past the fog of white that always seemed to enshroud L. Dr. Frendt waited for a few seconds to see if he would get any response, but there was none.

"_Err...yes. Quite. I'm glad to hear you are the same as always, consistency is a good thing._" He realized he was babbling and tried again. After all, this was his job. "_Um. Yes, well, we have received facts about a case that has recently happened, perhaps you've heard of it? The Killer X case? Yes? Well, in any event, the police are horrified. They can't find a single thing to tip them off about anything. They say that the victims were both women with no connection to each other, both decent people with few enemies. And while I have told you of the first case, there has been a second killing (of course there has been, what am I saying? There had to be a second killing if there are two victims, ha ha). So, it seems that this guy rather likes fooling around with his victims, but this one was hardly touched. All that happened..."_ Here, he choked. What was he saying "all that happened"? "All that happened?" If this was "all that happened" then he was chopped liver.

The glare L was sending him made him wish he could be so, if only to escape those cavernous eyes.

He coughed awkwardly then continued, "_Well, what happened was horrible. Well, to the woman. He maimed her. But what he did to the room is really quite interesting. He seems to have glued all the furniture to the ceiling, in the exact positions they were in before he came. He even re-wired the lamps so that they could light up on the floor. He covered the light bulb in blood, and wrote 'Killer X' on one of the walls. And I believe they found that he had covered the underside of all the furniture in blood, for no apparent reason, since it's not visible anyway. And beyond the words 'Killer X', the police are helplessly lost. They have no idea what is happening. There's no connection between the women, no reason that these killings should be happening._" He said, somehow gaining his ground back in the meantime of telling the story. He stretched out a hand with papers full of crime scene photos and information, ones that had previously been attached to his clipboard. He looked up and automatically remembered that it was Near he was handing it to, not a normal person. After holding it out awkwardly for some time, he gave up.

Near watched from his center stage, unblinking.

Out of ideas on how to transmit the information, Dr. Frendt did possibly the first clever thing in his life: he made a paper air plane.

He did, after all, have a knack for getting them to fly where he wanted. This plane was no exception. He flicked his wrist and soon the paper was in flight, arcing over to the human slushy. Before he was aware of what he was doing, Near snatched it out of the air, a reflex action that he hadn't realized he had. He tore his eyes from the psychiatrist long enough to dart them down to the paper.

It was right then that Dr. Frendt remembered the papers pertaining to schizophrenia, and groaned inwardly.

"_I see you took my advice then. As I said, chronic schizophrenia_."

Ah, the polar bear speaks.

- - -

What was this with the sudden desire to kill? X thought, scrunching his nose and holding a bag of bird seed. He considered the trouble of buying a different brand (he had, after all, snatched this off the shelf on an impulse) then realized that the empty feeling that was gnawing at him was from an unsatisfied desire. His art _demanded_ to be created.

And who was he to deny it?

- - -

"_Um, yes, that is correct. I did follow your advice. And I must say, that was quite an intellectual leap y-_"

A silent glare stopped the words that tumbled out of the young doctor's mouth. Cold and confused, he ended up spending another five hours with the small boy, who spent those three hours staring at the papers rather like they would bite him.

Five hours later, and alone at last, Near swung his scruffy head to the blonde that had seen the whole thing.

"_Well?_" Near said, picking up a paper with his first two fingers.

"Well, why not? Just for kicks." Mello offered. "I mean, the sole purpose of this is to win, right? Win over L, over Kira, over-" and then the words were lost, because at that moment something had clicked in Near's mind, a small gear shift that changed the way he saw the world.

This is the way Near sees the world: in flashes of color flitting by his tinted windows, teasing him with their brightness.

This is the way Near sees the world and Near is more then aware of the things that pass his windows. Because he never forgets anything, not a single flash of color.

And even in the state he was in-this state caused by the loss of all those close to him (an idol, a friend, an enemy) he was aware that Kira and all battles involving that good-for-nothing were over, won already.

This was the first time that, if only for a second, Near fully realized that Mello was dead, completely gone, and would always be gone, stuck in the past, fighting a constant battle over a villain that was already conquered.

This realization made even the impassive Near shiver slightly in his pristine pyjamas.

- - -

And of course, there was the matter of her screaming. Someone had heard this time, X knew. Someone had heard.

He considered the bird seed farther, for the second time, the empty ache in his chest satisfied for the third time. He considered prices and weights, and of course, there was the matter of her screaming.

That...he had to pause and consider an appropriate insult to fill the pause, but couldn't think fast enough, his mind already trailing off to his previous moment of artistic freedom.

_It was cold in the park that he kidnapped her in. And she was smart. He was cold and she was smart: the cold froze his bones and stilled his movement by just a little, and she was clever, well-taught in the ways of self-defense, and the slowing of his movement let her get just a little bit ahead._

_She screamed. People heard, called 911. Of course, by then she was in the trunk of his car, but she did scream. Now they would connect him to the park. They were after him, always after him._

_Her house (he had, after all, followed her before hand. What sort of killer would he be if he hadn't?) was empty, but he hurried, afraid. He knew he had a time limit now, and a time limit for art was never an ideal thing._

_He sighed, then let himself be pulled in by the scent of flame and blood._

_She was dead of course, no one could have lived through having a knife stuck in their throat, no matter how magical they were. And she certainly wasn't magical. She was, however, smart. _

_She was smart enough to fight back, smart enough to hide things in places he wouldn't think to look._

_She was smart, yes. She was clever and wise and calm._

_But, on the other hand, she was dead._

- - -


	4. Chapter 4

I do so wish I owned death note. but i don't. Or i wouldn't be writing this, I'd be leeching off the money i made.

- - -

Two days later, Near, curled in his customary crouch, fitted the pieces together for a blank puzzle. He was trying not to think. This, meanwhile, was turning out to be quite a bit harder then he had previously imagined.

Do you know what it is like to have a mind with such capacity for thought that it keeps you awake at night, that it makes every small action set off a series of calculations, that it turns a tennis match into a criminal investigation? No, of course you don't, not unless you were filling the position of L. You could not understand the constant stream of facts and information, the stress of having to be the best, the brightest. The smartest.

You might, however, understand losing someone so close to you it is like losing your skin. Suddenly you are left, naked, bereft, and so utterly alone that thought itself becomes your enemy. Suddenly, you are the last thing left, and with revelations such as these, suddenly…

Suddenly, you realize that you have lost your mind.

-- -

The young doctor scurried through the hallway, running one hand through his shaggy hair yet again. He clutched his papers messily to his chest as he made his way. He tried not to make eye contact with any of the other white-coats that roamed this place. He kept a mental mantra up, thinking, _I am not here. You do not see me. I am but a passing shadow_, his mind betraying his need to remain unnoticed.

What was this he had found? What was this he was trying so hard to hide from the others?

Could it be? Could it be the polar bear, the ice monster, the creature of the snow had finally said something? Had made a motion? Had breathed in a way such as to tell the suffering doctor what he thought of the case?

Could it be?

- -

Perhaps by nature, or perhaps by fault, Xander found himself wishing for more blood. And why not? It was not as if it was in short supply. He had even begun flipping through magazines for possible candidates. For some reason, this seemed mature to him. He hadn't thought to do it before, but he imagined himself as very suave, calm and cool as he was.

It was as if with every time he killed, he gained ten years. Not out of weariness, but out of mental power. Before, he had been such a child. Now, now he was bright, brilliant. And happy. And that paranoia that had plagued him: that was gone. So he was content.

But the matter of this developed blood lust was a pressing issue, he realized.

Killing was his addiction. And there was no one out there that could stop him.

- -

The futility of his actions stung the young doctor quite a bit. Delivering the papers to his boss, making big motions and trying to explain the word that L had used.

"_But, but…but, he said 'artist', sir. It's obvious that he was referring to the potential killer. So we're looking for an artist, right? It narrows it down. Right?"_ He had tried.

His boss was not happy, informing him that many artists were seldom recognized, if at all. Most simply had it as a hobby, then pursued their real jobs as was fit. So this one word was, if anything, just a reminder of how horribly that the doctor seemed to be handling the patient.

Idly, Dr. Frendt wondered why his boss hadn't just stamped "FAIL" across his forehead with big red block letters.

- -

"_It is man's nature to defy that which he does not understand. It is his nature to destroy. It is his nature to defy nature._

_But it is equally within man's nature to create, to build, to make wonders of his environment. To work towards a goal achievable as far as they can make it. _

_In other words, it is within mans nature to create and to destroy. And so why should art be any different?_"

The greasy-haired boy paused in his speech, shoving his glasses up his nose with one finger, peering out through them at the crowd gathered. He shuffled his papers importantly. This, what he was doing, was the start of a new era. He was teaching people to embrace Killer X as they had embraced another killer. Why should Killer X be any different of that most high of gods Kira?

It is possible that is these thoughts exactly that made most people think he was out of his mind. It might also be that if there was ever a warrant out for his arrest, the wanted poster would say "Geeky white boy, possibly armed with a calculator." As if anyone would take him seriously.

The only problem being that deep in the mind of the members of the audience, a seed was planted.

- -

There is an issue to which all minds should be turned. In fact, it is most likely close to blasphemy that so few people think to consider it.

What else but the clashing of using pink sequins _and_ gold sparkles?

Tiffany swung her hair over one shoulder, holding up her cheerleading outfit. Whoever had designed this needed to be shot. It wasn't like she was asking for much. Just a short skirt and virtually no top. And, she figured, it wasn't like it was all that hard to coordinate colors. The school's colors were _red _and gold, not this stupid pink color.

Tiffany was complaining via text to her various companions when the television downstairs blasted the facts of the last murder.

Not that she cared. After all, sequins were at stake.

- -

This is the way that Near sees the world: in ways only describable through metaphors. In visions that are so advanced that so many people have wished and hoped to be in his position. So many people, all vying for the position of L.

None of them understanding what it means to have _too_ much thought, too much going on in your head, too much information, too much memory. For your mind to focus on everything, on every detail. For your mind to have to look at the big picture as well. For your mind to refuse to let any one else in, because if it did, then it would have to focus on them as well.

But maybe you understand what it is like to let someone into your heart, really let them in. Letting them in as a friend, as a comrade-in-arms, as a rival. Someone you could talk to. Some one you don't have to talk to: they already know. Someone who will stand by you or walk away when they know you're wrong. Someone who will tell you the truth even when it hurts you, some one that would tell you the truth _because_ it hurts you, and they know that you need to hear it.

Someone that life without them isn't life anymore.

Maybe you understand what it is like to have something to live for, someone to live for. Maybe you have an impossible goal, the thing you have worked for all your life. Maybe you know what it's like to have a purpose, to have someone to battle you for that purpose. To have someone you _need_ to surpass, to have someone that is the manifestation of your hopes, dreams, prayers, sacrifices. To have a goal so impossible that only one person can reach it. To have a goal that is so seductive, people like you, from all around the world, have assembled to reach it as well.

A goal that it nothing without your idol to witness you achieving, there is no point in reaching it.

And maybe, just maybe, you have lost as much as you had gained: a friend and a hero, gone in the blink of an eye.

This is necessary to explain because it creates a single passageway into the world that is Near's mind. It is the path that many have woven their way through, running their fingers along the slimy walls, watching as the cobblestone slowly slinks into an emotionless onyx. It's a passageway forged by pain and sorrow, a need for love and a lack of hope. The tunnel is too deep, too dark, for anyone to see the end. Too many people give up before they reach the finish, slowly sliding into a deep pool of their own tears. Slowly drowning, all alone in a bottomless misery.

There are several ways to make it to the end, if you can make it to the end. You could make it all the way, with a strong will and friends to support you. You could cheat yourself and skip the path, forgetting everything.

Or you could lose your mind, and hope that your fantasies will lead you right.

Near, unfortunately, has found himself all alone, freezing to death, a racing mind and a slowly beating heart the only things to call his own.

- --

Yeeees, who do you think I will thank for being awesome? you? yes!


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Ah, hello, sorry it took so long. But here it is. AND, btw, I do not own death note and the characters involved. I am going to own some seriously famous book someday, and then I won't have to write a disclaimer whenever I write spinoffs of it. Of course, by time its actually published, I think I would be quite sick of it, thanks very much. Anyways.

----

Dr. Frendt, for all his life, could ever only be described as "a Steve." He was no person of consequence by any means – a low-level psychologist with a hefty student loan and several clingy patients. He might be somewhat adept at what he did, but the farthest anyone had ever gone into describing him was his brown hair and blue eyes.

That scruffy brown hair and worried blue eyes now poured over textbooks, his lean body hunched over the dusty materials that spelled out eons of psychology and studies into the workings of the human mind. Pages and pages of yellowing paper were filled with the cramped black ink that spelled out symptoms and treatments and diagnostics.

Dr. Steve Fredt: currently chained in a library by his own volition. He needed to find something in one of these books bound with knowledge. Something, anything to defy the diagnosis that his polar bear patient had recently admitted to having – that was what he needed to find, and he would stay in here until he had a lead. His scruffy brown hair was coated in dust from the centuries-old books, his fingers blacked by ink. The library walls surrounded him, keening at him with potential answers. So far, he had three paper cuts, two snack breaks, and so far, no answers.

Dr Steve Frendt: currently, a brown-haired beast frequenting the alleys of innocent anglophiles, his sole purpose to find an answer that didn't exist.

- -

Sequins, _everywhere_.

Tiffany, one betrayed hand to her shocked chest, gasped prettily. Her efforts, all of them, sprayed nonchalantly around her pretty pink bedroom. The gold sparkles were mixed in with the red ones, the orange sequins in with the pink. To people that did not know her, the room looked untouched. But to her, something was seriously wrong. Her craft box had been rifled through. And there was one person she was positive was responsible.

She growled in a very un-cheerleader way and whipped around to flounce into the hallway. It was clear she was angry because at the moment, not a single cheer or rhyme rang through her pretty head. She was captain of a cheer squad: darn straight she could be mean.

She swung the door of her younger brother's room wide open, disgusted by the waft of geek-air that slammed into her face. The hovel he lived in was currently plastered with facts on the Kira case and that new guy that was killing all those people. Tiffany stood strong – the boy's locker room was actually worse then this.

Her pasty white failure of a brother was crooning over a Gameboy Advanced, humming along to the shrill music that sounded suspiciously like Pokémon. (Not that Tiffany would openly admit to knowing what Pokémon _was, _much less what it sounded like). His brown eyes looked up to her and he opened his mouth in protest, but her cheerleader wrath lashed out at him.

"_You touched my craft box, you hideous survivor of geek wilderness. That is in every violation of every rule I have laid down with you. That is a 'no' in every language. You didn't even bother to hide it, you scum of modern society! You are a failure on every planet and in every home! We made a promise!"_ She hissed. _"I would let you be the smart one, and you would never never _ever_ enter my room!_"

Sadly, her geek brother was one of the only people who were aware of her intelligence. If anyone else knew, her reputation as cheer-captain would be trashed. So she allowed her intelligence to be claimed by this monstrosity that was (admittedly) related to her. Whenever she did well on tests and homework, she told her friends she had made her brother do it. Whenever a word slipped from her mouth that was longer then three syllables, she feigned hearing it from her sibling. Even her parents were fooled by the sequins and sparkles. For all the world knew, she was just an empty head and a pretty face.

Travis made a face from his spot on the floor, surrounded by pizza rinds and used tissues. "_I needed it for a project, Tiffany._" He responded. It was close enough to the truth.

She put a hand on her hip. "_You're going to pay for this, _Tradly." She hissed. Travis flinched. Ever since she had figured out his D-n'-D name (Tradly, Warlock of Squemour), Tiffany had gotten into the habit of hissing it at him when she was mad. She flipped her brown hair over her shoulder, and stormed into her room. It was time to plan.

--

Xander, happy, bagged salmon in glee. The three teenage girls in front of him were chatting lazily to each other, their college minds allowing for some interesting words. There, right in front of him, were three girls, and if his day could get any better, they were talking about _him._

A short, curvy girl with long brown hair pulled into pigtails was sucking on a lollipop and looking joyfully at her friends. At first glance, Xander had her pegged as a junior high student or a freshmen, but her friends seemed to accept her as an equal in age. Her large, brown, immature eyes stared at her friends even as her mouth spoke. (Actually, Xander was slightly confused by her. How could such big words come from such a little girl? Maybe she was an artist of words as much as he was an artist of pain. That was possible. Maybe she spent too much time reading and writing. That was also very possible).

"_But see, that's not even the worst of it. Even after Killer X stabbed her, he began a conflagration inside of her abode. The flames should have been visible from an outside standpoint, but there is no record of a witness calling into the fire station. All neighbors were supposedly unaware of the carnage that was taking place not seventeen yards from their windows._"

A slim girl of average height nodded lazily, her auburn hair falling into her face. Soft grey eyes addressed her tiny friend. She reached into the brown leather satchel at her side, pulling out a much-abused sketchbook. Xander brightened as he recognized the mark of a fellow artist. These three, these three he liked. Not only were they talking about him, they appeared to each be an artist of their own trade. Almost with bliss he ran their chocolate icing over the scanner, their cupcakes and lollipops. (Xander had a vague suspicion that these were the groceries of the tiny brunette, but he wasn't well enough acquainted with her to make the conjecture without some doubt).

The artist flipped open to a charcoal drawing. "_I did a sketch of the room, based on the description given by the police,_" was all she said. Xander couldn't see what she had drawn, but he knew what she would have had to have in order to be correct. After all, his art was immortal in his memory.

_He had moved the furniture, all of it, out of the room before he started. Her body he left inside. Then he hunted through her house, looking for as many accelerants as he could find. Her wood stove provided the matches, and with some ease he padded back into his den of slaughter. He was careful when he used fire: it wasn't something that could be all-at-once. Slowly, slowly, he coated the walls in charred darkness. Using a rag, he whipped everything clean. It looked as if the room had been painted in black. Then, with her bone as a paint brush, he began to draw, using the bone to scrape away the ash from the walls, one line at a time. One moment to the next, one brushstroke, one life spilled for one piece of art. And there, there he drew his mural. His past victims, lifting this one up into heaven, all of their wings a glorious white. He gave her the gift of song in this art, so that others would know she was prone to screeching. Yes, he had paid homage to her and her shrieking ways. And of course, on the wall with the door, he had scratched "Killer X" as always. His mark, his name. Emblazoned in ashes and emblazoned in history._

Meanwhile, as Xander was reminiscing, the third girl had started speaking. She was tall and blonde, her short hair brushing her shoulders, her blue eyes startlingly icy. She spoke as if she didn't care, but her views made sense despite their bluntness. She didn't directly address her friends, but instead watched Xander suspiciously as he bagged about thirteen boxes of noodles.

"_Regardless, the number of laws he's breaking is ridiculous. If you get past the whole 'killing' thing, then there's still breaking and entering, arson, manslaughter, and being a total freak. I mean, he has this whole 'I keel jou' thin going on here, which has left the police stumped, but seriously? Who wakes up one day and is like 'gee, I really feel like slaughtering girls today'? And for that matter, why always girls? Is he like, a chauvinist or something? I read about a case like that once. That was the killer's only mistake: he would only prey on girls, so the police knew to look for a certain profile. I think that my band teacher mentioned it to me._" She said, idly paying as Xander finished bagging their items. He decided that the blonde was probably a lawyer as well as a musician, based on her language and tone – as well as the fact she was drop-dead scary. Xander tried not to shake with glee. Here this girl had tipped off Killer X, and she would never know. He smiled at her as he handed the three their bags, watching as they divvied them up between themselves. The healthy food more fit for human consumption went to the auburn-haired artist, the sweets to the short one, and the linguini to the lawyer. The brunette twisted the green lollipop in her mouth and smiled gloriously at him, thanking him properly as she did so.

"_Thank you very much for your help,_" She said, her voice washing over him in chocolate waves.

She was his age, he figured, they all were. It was like three angels of art had been sent down to him. And just like that, they had given him everything. He even found that strange ache in his chest, the one that hummed with bloodlust.

Now to find a boy.

---

AN: Thanks like seven million to absh, who actually usually convinces me to write more. And thank you to all those who reviewed, especially The Recorder. Seriously, that review not only made my day, but makes me laugh every time I read it.


	6. Chapter 6

A.N: I. Do. Not. Own. Death. Note. Gawd knows i wish i did. ALSO, can i ask prematurely that you ignore any tiny grammar/spelling errors? I've recently broken my wrist and typing with one hand is...pretty close to impossible.

--

Tiffany, her hair tugged into an unflattering ponytail, lurched her way to the library. She was so _frustrated_ that she almost starting muttering cheers. She was on the _train_, of all things. It was horrible. She could practically feel the germs sinks into her skin. The car around her was mostly empty, only a quiet couple and a snoozing someone to make Tiffany twitch with horror even more. She was positive no one would recognize her: she had swapped out her tight clothes for a ratty, baggy sweatshirt and, horror of all horrors, _jeans._ Not even designer jeans, either! And in the middle of _February_! She should be pulling out her short shorts and her tank tops, not slumming it in hoodies.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself. She was here for a reason, after all. From the train, two stops over to the bus, then to Minuteman – no, their rival, yes, to Minuteman's rival library. It sported enough books to allow Tiffany to research her plot, and was far enough out of her zip code that no one would recognize her. She flipped her hair angrily, holding onto the greasy bar, a tissue separating her delicate skin and the metal pole.

Oh, he was _so_ going to pay. She was so upset, not even texting her friends in all caps-lock would help. It was sheer blasphemy that Tiffany be led into such a state.

Tradly, Warlock of Squemour, was about to learn not to mess with a cheerleader.

--

Steve Frendt, previously a self-chained beast of remarkable fortitude, currently had one cheek pressed against a large book that smelled like mildew. His eyes scanned the same line over and over, but he couldn't figure out what he was reading. Furthermore, he had transcended boredom and had actually managed to pass into a sort of Nirvana-like state. At the moment, he slumped against the book, rolling his head back and forth across the pages, listening to his hair settle. His eyes would watch his bangs instead of the words, but his mind didn't seem to care.

Steve, previously nothing to be trifled with, was currently a scourge among library dwellers for no other reason then that he would often mutter to himself or snore rather loudly. He had been searching for something to believe in (a song that used to inspire him by the same name now just ran tunelessly through his mind) but had ended up with nothing. Line after line after line he scanned.

Or was it the same line, over and over?

Steve just mentally shrugged and shifted his head. His hair made the same sound as falling snow.

--

"It's not as if you have to do as he says," Mello assured the new L. "It's not like you ever followed anything _I _suggested. It was always, 'do this, Mello,' 'do that, Mello,' 'I've got a better score on the test then you have, Mello.' I mean, _really?_ Come on, you were, what, two whole points ahead of me?" He said jokingly, but his eyes, deep and dead, remained fixated on Near's face.

Near could not turn away from his best friend's face, from the eyes that carried nothing but rot and hopelessness. He opened his frail mouth, a flash of pink on white. "_You are not real. I am hallucinating. You are a figment of my imagination. And you are long dead._"

Mello quirked his head to the side. "Does that stop me from being here?"

Near paused and stared straight back into the eyes which he knew so well, and very slowly shook his head. There was his best friend: his opposite and his shadow, his everything. They had grown up together, had fought together. But Mello had died alone. And while Near was very aware of that fact, he couldn't shake the black eyes that ground into his soul.

Softly, resting one soft, false hand on his friend's shoulder, Mello whispered, "Does that stop it from hurting so much?"

Slowly, so slowly that it was almost indistinguishable, Near shook his head.

--

They were back. The girls, of course. Xander almost drooled on their groceries. The brown haired one was currently sucking on a honey stick and watching the line of dog-and-cat food go by.

"_Maybe if you hadn't been so, so…gah! I dunno, so _you,_ we wouldn't be back for the second time in one week. I mean, really? Did you have to donate _all_ the dog food?_" The artist complained to the lawyer, who shrugged. She didn't care.

"_But it was for the _animals!"she insisted, but looked rather composed, as if her decision had pleased her. The artist shook her head, but didn't look too offended. She actually was smiling, as if she also stood by the actions of the blonde. The brown-haired one just sucked away at the honey stick, occasionally turning it thoughtfully in her mouth. Her large eyes peered out from her bangs, excitement shining in them as the watched several packages of cupcakes go by, followed by about sixteen boxes of cake mix.

"_And_ you_, shouldn't you be, hey, eating right? What dancer eats candy all the time?_" The artist mildly chided, but then stole a honey stick from the small fingers of her friend, eyes twinkling. "_I'll just take that off you, then. Allow you to resist temptation._"

The newly-named dancer's eyes welled with a puppy-dog look, as if someone had just stepped on her tail. "_Don't take my sustenance! I dance four hours a day!_" She protested. "_Don't make fun of my quixotic behavior. Who cares if I'm a cognoscenti of glucose instead of wine?_"

The blonde rolled her eyes. "_You dance more then you write. Seriously, what's with that? You're so attached to one thing, but can't let go of the other. Once in awhile you'll churn out something good so you can pay for dance class, but other then that you have no sense of schedule._" She said, rolling her eyes. "_Being impulsive is going to get boring sometime, you know._"

Xander jerked his head up, straight into the liquid eyes of the small dancer, who just smiled placidly.

The dancer twirled her body magnificently, like the twist of a river. "_Even the blind can find a pattern in the random, when the random is impulsive. Behind every impulse is a reason, and behind every reason is a person. This is true of everyone, from dancers to artists. From me to you._" She sang, the picked up their bags. She again twisted her honey stick in her mouth, and smiled like the sun. "_You've helped us before, correct?_" she asked Xander, her eyes on his, addressing him exactly. He nodded and forced himself to look away from the immature brightness.

"_You're very kind to do so, sir. Thank you deeply._" She said, her eyes like beacons into his soul.

Xander tried to remember just where he had seen someone like her, where he had met a woman with a kind, sweet nature. Where he had met these women, the ones that helped them and were innocent and were angels. He loved them, somehow, in some way. In a way that wasn't lust, wasn't want.

And yet, as he thought of those eyes: one pair sapphire blue, one pair mist grey, one pair chocolate, he could barely repress a sob.

--

Tiffany stormed into the library, straight to where they kept books that weighed more then she did. In here, she could find information to incriminate her younger brother-

Her rant paused as she stumbled onto a table strewn with open psychology books older then her grandmother, notes, and what appeared to be someone who was talking to himself, not realizing someone else was near.

"_Artist. What was I thinking? Thanks ever so much, L. Or is it Near? Or is it crazy-schizophrenic-wacko-prince-of-snow? Who knows? I don't know. Artist." _ He mumbled to himself, brown hair falling softly over his eyes, his slim frame melting into the table.

Tiffany approached him, but was a tad worried that he might be a crazy person. She cautiously tapped him on the shoulder. "_Excuse me, sir? Um, were you asleep?_"

Wild, sea-colored eyes met hers, full of passion and dismay. "_I wish. If it was only all a nightmare…_" He said, a smooth, young voice washing over her with such a tone of melancholy that Tiffany was struck dumb. Or maybe it was his soft hair, his lean body.

Or maybe it was that he looked like a Steve. She liked people named Steve.

--

It was his mother.

That's who she reminded him of: who they all reminded him of. His mother, whose face he could never quite recall, whose touch he had not felt since he was four or five, whose existence had been wiped from his life, who had died in his helpless arms, whose eyes burned like beams into his soul.

That was who they reminded him of: the woman that had given life to him, who loved him, who died for him. It was her spirit he saw in the young girls' eyes. And from that realization, Xander, seated at the park, wanted to cry, but it felt wrong.

Killers never feel they should cry for the dead.

--

"We could just talk about the case, you know. Just let on a few hints here and there." Mello said, drifting over the tower Near was building. "Isn't that why we exist?"

"_This idea that you suggest is not suitable for several reasons. The first of which being that I have already tried to nudge the small man into the correct direction, and have not been successful._" He said back to his friend. They had endured many a cross together, many a pain, but it was their strange competitive nature that let them be friends, best friends. He was not about to let that go. In the polar bear's mind, Mello was rarely right. In Mello's mind, the blonde was rarely wrong.

"So? You said something vague. Your fault. Also, isn't that 'small man' the same age as you?" Mello retorted, snapping his jaws sharply into a chocolate bar with extra oomph. Near almost smiled. He missed having someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to always tell him he was wrong when he was right.

"_Secondly, if I was to, as you say, 'hint,' I might as well just solve the case._" Near continued, as if he hadn't heard the comment about the man's age.

Mello shrugged and crunched the chocolate bar farther, shredding the wrapper and tossing it to the ground, where it slowly faded. "Isn't that what you're here for?" He asked, twisting the chocolate around in his mouth, smacking his tongue obnoxiously.

"_And most importantly, you are a figment of my imagination and therefore you are not to be trusted._" Near concluded, but he couldn't bring his eyes to the soulless ones that stared at him, unblinking. He could only focus on where Mello's scar ought to be, but wasn't: where his subconscious had erased it, instead filling in the cheek Near had seen for the majority of his life. It was as if Mello was in the prime of his life, standing before him, except that Mello's eyes were not the way they used to be: they were, for no reason, a strange shade of dead that unnerved the unresponsive Near.

"Alright. Let's say I am a part of your imagination, for kicks. I'm just you, right? What does that mean, huh?" Mello asked defensively, arms crossed over his chest, two fingers gripping his major food group.

Near was silent, looking away from his friend completely. When he closed his eyes, he could see the real carcass, charred and mangled, but the image lingering on the side of his vision remained the same: Mello, with eyes like a sleepless night. He whispered, quietly, out into his card castle.

"_It means I can't trust myself. Ever again._"

What use was an L that couldn't solve a case? None. What use was he, then? His dreams? His friend's death? His wishes? His hours of sorrow? Of hurt? What use was this body, what use was this mind, when he couldn't stop seeing those unseeing eyes, couldn't forget his friend's body laid out before him?

None. He was as useless as the snow that fell around his heart.

--

Travis, young, foolish, Killer X-obsessed and willing to spend at least a few more years alive, was currently tucked in the trunk of some car, bandaged and beaten.

Travis, having already given a lecture on how Killer X should be revered, having faced the wrath of one teenager who was not to be named lest she sense his thoughts and beat him up, was not scared of the antics of some college frat boy wannabes. For he was a geek, and therefore Travis was not at all unaccustomed to rough behavior by those around him. He was the target too many a hazing, of many a bullying. His sister sheltered him from a great deal (when she was in the mood), but often his day included being strung up or tucked into trunks. He didn't panic. They'd let him out sometime, dress him up like a girl, and tie him to a pole or something. It was daily routine.

Travis, sighing, resigned himself to his fate.

Travis was later found four states downstream, unnamed and mutilated, horror written on his teenage visage, or what looked like it. No one could really tell.

Because his eyes had been plucked from his face.

--

A.N: *bows low* thanks to the Recorder who i would marry if that was legal (heheh) and of course to absh and allll of my mismash of readers. Sorry this chapter was like *emo emo emo oh hey emo* In my defense, i spent the majority of the time having the theme song to Rocky and Eye of the Tiger stuck in my head like peanut butter and songs like that mess me up some.


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